RIP

For the past few years our interaction was bare minimum. No calls, visits, almost nothing.Updates came via my mom. I am sure mine were also relayed through the same channel. Work, life, play, kept me occupied. More than a couple of times, I planned to go and renew the ties…but then life is a bitch.
Sitting on my shoulders, it weighed heavy. Was it the weight or the guilt? I guess the guilt quotient was more. Recitation of some mumbo-jumbo rites came to an end and in no time fire consumed her. Exhuming her of all the pain, suffering and the cancerous cells which defeated Manju Didi, my cousin.
I remember, as a young boy, sitting in the living room of her huge colonial style bungalow, which was tucked away from the hustle and bustle of city life, I got exposed to a new world. This living room was the spot where I got addicted to books. Though at that age I could not even read.  Lying on the sofa, holding a Reader’s Digest; albeit upside down, I would pretend to read for hours. She would pass by, looking adoringly at me, ruffling my hair, giving me her trademark, kind and warm smile.
For my birthdays, the gifts were almost fixed—books. I can still remember the hard bound beauties that graced my shelf for almost thirty five years. Most of them were imported. I did not even know from where she got them. She was the one who imbibed not only the habit of reading, but reading titles which were worthwhile. In my second title, Chapter 11, I did thank her for blessing me this beautiful habit.
There were times when she would go out with her friends to watch a movie. Being the only man, I was made responsible for the custody of the tickets. During the movie, like a Casanova, I sat there, in between some 10-12 girls, smiling, feeling shy, a little odd too. Popcorns were unheard of then and the movie was enjoyed over rounds of roasted peanut.
She was the one who initiated me to the wonderful world of cakes and soufflés. Now being a well travelled man, I can say with conviction that I have never tasted soufflés as good as the ones made by her. My fondness for her and the soufflés assumed a new proportion. To ensure an uninterrupted supply of soufflés, I proclaimed my intention of marrying her.
During my early days in Delhi, over weekends, I would crash in shamelessly at her Vasant Kunj apartment.  She would get my laundry done, feed me like a boy out of Somalia. We would gossip for hours.
From a boy I became a man. A man with responsibilities of making a living, paying the EMIs, managing the mood swings of boss, wife and clients. She understood all of this and stepped back. My car got bigger, so did my house and all this make me sidetrack her immense love for me. Like a silly man, I pursued the material benefits harder, not even sparring few minutes for her.    
And like a true loving soul, she did not complain even once. Whenever we met during family functions or get together, her eyes and smile always had the same affection and warmth.
Today, with a big house and car, I sit here, missing her and her soufflés. Thank you Manju Didi for everything and sincere apologies for not being the brother that you deserved.  
Manju Didi, May your soul rest in peace.